


Looping

by Mikey (mikes_grrl)



Series: Looping Saga [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Mental Illness, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikes_grrl/pseuds/Mikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is Sam, and what the crap is he doing here? Why does he want Gene dead? And is Gene really "queer as 'ell"?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looping

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to kick start the "Vote Yes for Gene-on-a-Hook in 2008"  
> campaign, and this is where I went. I swear, I take my meds, I do, but OMG this is such utter crack. I cannot believe I wrote this, but I did, and I have no choice but to face the public humiliation and shame that will attend me now. (I really need to go back to Hot Fuzz; the world is such a simpler place there…) And don't ask me any questions about the 'technical details.'. Just don't, because I don't know the answers, I only wrote the damn thing. Make it stooopppp!!!!
> 
> CREDIT: Special loving THANK YOU to "wajoma" for her generous permission to use her original character, Missus, for this fic. I think you will agree that she might be the most important plot point in the whole thing, especially at the end.

Gene could take a beating. He took a number of them over the years, from his father, rarely from his brother, his mates of course and then every once in a while from a crim with luck on his side. He nearly, but not quite, took one from Sam, once. Once. Well he kind of let the boy get on him because Sam needed to let off steam, so really that did not count.

Not like this.

The blows fell randomly, not with any consistency at all. Sometimes fast and furious, sometime slow and hard, never at a rhythm he could prepare himself for and never with any mercy he could rely on. Smart, though, like a boxer: never at vital organs or delicate parts that might break or bust open. Not his face, or his balls, and never with anything but fists. He assumed the fists were at least taped off, or the guy was stripping his knuckles with this assault. Gene imagined he was a punching bag, and never in his life felt empathy for an inanimate object before but he sure as hell did now.

His arms were already a lost cause. He had been hanging from the chains so long he could not even feel his hands – Christ that hurt like hell, when they first fell asleep and he just wanted to move his fingers to ward off the sensation, but the dull buzz worked into an aching, agonizing pain and he thought his skin was going to burst open from the pressure in his hands and then, as tears rolled down his face from the pain, it stopped. Not a good sign at all, he knew that, but fuck all he could do about it, and there were the beatings that rather distracted him from that whole problem. So he just hung there, his toes barely touching the floor, feeling the muscles in his shoulders slowly being stripped from the bone as his strength collapsed.

Then he was on the floor, completely, and bloody hell cold cement never felt so good. He guessed he spent hours hanging up by his arms, or shit it might have been ten minutes but damage done either way. The chains were still in place, his legs still taped together – thank fuck they left his pants on; getting his hair torn off with the tape would have been the worst torture, really – and the blindfold was left in place. It felt good, honest to god bloody fucking fabulous until the blood started moving and his hands woke up to the most horrific pain he ever felt in his life. Including the time his father dumped hot oil down his leg during a fight. No, this was worse than that, hell yeah it was.

There was silence all around him, as he woke back up from the pain. Cold floor, silent room, chains, bruised body and utter confusion. He did not know where he was, or who was doing this to him, or why he was here, and for possibly the first time since getting bombed to the basement during the War, Gene Hunt was shit-in-his pants fucking terrified.

\---------

Gene Hunt did not believe in weekends. He always worked them, someway or another, perhaps by actually living out of his Cortina, as far as Sam could tell. So for Sam to actively be 'in charge' of CID for more than twelve hours straight was nearly a luxury for him. It was on the whole a quiet weekend for crime and all the better, he had time to catch up on paperwork. Contrary to popular belief, he did not enjoy doing paperwork, he just liked the end result. Kind of like painting your flat: a total pain in the arse, but worth it once all the furniture was back in place and you were holding a nice dinner party and serving a delicious Caribbean-style tilapia dinner with a crisp, golden chardonnay and…

"Are you payin' attention, Sam?" Annie frowned, slapping the folder on his desk.

"What? No. No I wasn't." He admitted, shrugging. Visions of tilapia danced in his head.

"It's jus' odd we ain't seen the Guv for the whole weekend, yeah? I mean…with that mugging this morning and all, usually he comes right out the woodwork for somethin' like that." Annie scrunched up her face and Sam saw Chris bobbing behind her.

"Yeah, not like the Guv to just let anyone run the place for so long…uh, not that you're anyone, Boss…"

"Let me get this straight. You don' see the Guv for more than twelve hours, and you think something is wrong?"

Annie and Chris looked at each other, confused, but then turned back to him and nodded.

Sam sighed. Pointless to argue. "You check for automobile accidents? Maybe he finally hit something bigger than a waste tin."

Perfect. They scrambled out of the office to go check accident reports, and Sam bent back over his paperwork, wondering if tilapia was even available in Manchester in 1974.

\------------

Worse. Fabulous. Gene wondered who was thinking this shit up as he squirmed. He could tell from the smell that it was a cigarette, and he could tell from the pain that he was going to wear permanent scars from the burns, providing that he was allowed to live through this, which he was beginning to doubt. What he did not know was who was doing this to him, or why, and when he asked politely who the bloody insane bugger was, he just got burned again. There was no maniacal laughing, and there was nothing pervvy going on – no sounds of a bloke wanking off, anyway – and there was just no clue at all that he could grab on to figure this out.

He was just being tortured, plain and simple, and finally at what he thought was maybe the sixth or seventh burn on his chest, he screamed.

\-------------

No Gene. Everyone looked at him expectantly, as if he had some kind of Gene radar-scope vision. It was morning and Gene was supposed to be there over an hour ago and phone calls to his house were not being answered. Sam knew that as the erstwhile leader of 'his' team he needed to display firm resolve and professional competence, but that did not mean he was not scared shitless. They sent plods by Gene's house, but no one was answering the door and his Cortina was not in the drive. After that he sent everyone out to any place Gene might have passed out at, as Sam secretly nursed the idea that Gene finally hit his mark and drank himself into a gutter somewhere.

But his instinct was telling him otherwise, and while he did not trust that feeling completely, he was certainly paying closer attention.

Word slowly filtered back: No Gene. No one had seen him at the Railway Arms, the boxing club, the Warren (a long shot, admittedly), the legal casinos, or the illegal casinos (Sam did not ask Ray how he knew). Gene's cat 'Missus' was howling for food at the door of his place, and when Sam showed up there to let her in, he realized that no one had been home all weekend. It smelled musty and stale and as Sam cased the place he realized that…shit.

"His shoes." He pointed, and Chris gasped like a pre-teen. Gene's shoes were by the bed. Of course he owned more than one pair of shoes but the white loafers were really all he ever wore, and certainly all he would wear if he went out to any place of any importance for any length of time.

Gene was gone.

\---------------

He woke up in pain, which was not surprising because he passed out in pain, and he expected to die in pain at this rate. Nice consistency to it, after all.

As he regained his thought process, he realized he was on something like a bed, or at least something soft, and his blindfold removed. He looked around. Of course, a deserted factory, perfect. Just where he expected to find Sam hacked to pieces one day, that flaming queer, but no, here he was on some blankets on the floor, oozing and smelling like shit. Amazing how the smell is always the first thing to get you; he remembered his first autopsy, and while it was not something he admitted these days, to anyone, he did pass out. It was not from what he saw, it was from the smell, which wrenched his gut two ways to Sunday and reminded him of the dead stench that hung over the city after bombings during the War. Harry Woolfe helped him back up and handed him a flask to take a swig out of, and the next day Gene went and bought his own flask. Harry. God, he missed Harry.

He blinked. The smell. Maybe not such a deserted warehouse after all. He tried to move, but his body rebelled against him and remained frozen in place. What in damnation was that smell? Food, sure, but some strange concoction that surely came straight out of Sam's demented pantry. Did not smell like curry or even anything natural. Pungent, that was the word Sam might use, the ponce. Pungent.

He heard noise and tried looking around, and it hurt, but he did it anyway. Damned if he was going to just lie there and take whatever this maniac was going to dish out next, particularly if it was pungent. Bastard.

"Wakey wakey. Dinner's almost ready."

Gene blinked and shook his head and blinked again as Sam towered over him, leering, smiling.

"Don't worry, Gene, I won't rape you until after I've eaten. Like that? You're dessert!" Sam laughed, and Gene's mind went utterly blank.

\------------

"Now. He had to have been taken from his house, and he possibly knew who it was. There is no sign of a struggle and…"

"Do we know he was kidnapped?" Ray asked critically.

"No, we don't really know anything, Ray. I'm covering all of our bases."

Chris nodded. "He nowt got family, nowhere he could be."

"My thoughts exactly, Chris. Now. Given that there was no sign of struggle…"

"You think he might be in danger?" Annie said, worried. Sam glared at her.

"I don't know! Can we stay on topic, please?"

"The Guv is the topic." Ray grumbled.

"Yes! Exactly! So let's treat this as a case, alright? He's not at the hospitals, his Cortina was not involved in any accidents, he has no family to visit out of town, and…"

"Missus." Chris nodded gravely and every one murmured.

"Right." Sam sighed in exasperation. "He would not leave Missus on her own. So by the process of deduction – stay with me here – we have to assume that he was quite possibly the victim of foul play." He was trying to tone down the sarcasm, but it was not really possible.

"Guv wouldn't let himself be carted out w'out a fight." Ray said, and it was logically a good argument.

"Not if he was drugged. Not if he knew the attacker and did not realize he was in danger."

"So you kidnapped him?" Chris asked.

"What?" Sam shook his head, flabbergasted and speechless.

"You're the only one 'oo ever visits 'im. At his house, an' all."

There were assenting murmurs again, and Sam slammed his hand on a desk. "Do I look like I've kidnapped the Guv? Jesus Christ will you people get on the same page here?"

\--------------

"What…what day…" Gene tried to talk, but realized his voice was hoarse. His throat was still raw from screaming. That only made him mad.

"Monday. We've had a wonderful weekend together, don't you think?"

"Sam…for God's sake…" He rolled onto his side, and it hurt, but everything hurt, so big fucking difference that made. Sam was sitting on a folding chair, like you might use at a picnic, eating his mashed whatever-the-hell-that-was and smiling benignly at Gene. He did not, after all, look much like Sam, despite clearly being Sam. The sideburns were gone, and his clothes…blue jeans. Sam never wore blue jeans, that he could remember. And a dark green turtleneck that Gene was also sure that Sam never wore. Maybe the ponce bought a special outfit just for his Gene Genie…he snorted.

"What, Gene? Hungry?"

"Bloody fuck. Let me go."

"Mmmmm….no." Sam took another bite of food and his eyes glittered malevolently.

"Why? Jesus, Sam…"

"I owe you, Gene. God, do I owe you." Sam rolled his eyes heavenwards in an exaggerated sigh. "Or something like you. Close enough, this time."

"Always knew…you…bat-shit crazy…" Gene croaked, his voice failing him completely.

"Can you believe it?" Sam yelled happily. "Insane! Who knew?" He leaned over and smiled gleefully, and Gene shuddered. Yes, this man, this Sam or Sam-alike or flipped out nutso Sam, scared the hell out of him. For a damn good reason.

\------------

"Gene?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Everyone stood silently in CID staring at him, rising up from the mass of paperwork retrieved from collating. They had pulled out every file on any criminals who were not currently locked up who might have a grudge against the Guv, and that was a hell of a lot of paperwork. Mountains of it. They stood in the midst of a paper mountain range, slack jawed, speechless.

"Good…good to see you." Sam spoke with a complete lack of conviction. This was not, could not, be Gene. He had a short haircut that actually looked good on him. He was wearing blue jeans, and black work boots, and a heavy blue sweater. His camel coat was not in evidence, and in fact Sam noticed a grey trench coat tucked over one of his arms. Any other day in his life, Sam would have been thrilled to see _this_ Gene walk though the door, but right now, it only made him queasy.

"Uh…where you been, Guv?" Ray took the lead for once, and Sam made a mental note to thank him for that. Someday.

"Out. Busy. Why?" He looked around critically, and yes, that certainly looked like Gene.

"We kinda thought you…uh…been kidnapped. Or summat." Ray frowned, registering that Gene did not really look like Gene.

"Oh, well, thank you for your concern, Sergeant, but no. I'm fine." Gene smiled kindly and a deep, shuddering horror ran through every person in the room. Sam could feel it, and agreed with it, because whoever this bastard was, he was NOT Gene.

\-------------

"So I thought, why not? Just snap you up, bring you some place private, and torture you to death. Really, just too simple. Hell we haven't even started! What you think of the cigarette burns, eh? Since you love smoking so much. Just poetic. God I'm brilliant." Sam leaned back in the chair, smiling, and not really explaining a damn thing. Gene stared at him.

He was still on his side, because it was just too much trauma to try to lay on his back again. In fact if he died right there, like that, it would be not be soon enough. This was a great position to die in, he thought, and rather wished it would happen quickly. Very quickly. As in, right now would be perfect.

No fucking luck.

He groaned, forcing himself to lay down on his back.

"You are just bloody gorgeous. Look at those bruises! My god you can take a beating." Sam kept talking, enthralled with the sound of his own voice, so maybe it really was Sam after all. "Scab up quickly too. I bet…" He shook his finger at Gene, grinning. "I bet it is due to all that alcohol in your system! Antiseptic from the inside out!" He howled in laughter and it was spooky. Gene just stared, willing himself not to react to anything. He could hear Sam – his Sam, the one in his head – telling him he needed to 'open a dialogue' with his kidnapper, and Gene mentally told him to sod off.

"Oh, no. Wrong wrong wrong. I want easy access." Sam got up and manhandled Gene over, and he pulled up his knees just to keep his chest from hitting the blankets. He did not know how many burns were on his chest, but enough not to want them to be touched by even air, and he leaned forward onto his forehead to support his upper body, his arms still so sore that they only shook when he tried to move them as they stretched out in front of him, still chained up. Gene felt the tape being cut and his legs pulled apart and he was really glad he still had his pants on, until he felt them being cut off too. God damn sharp knife, or maybe scissors. He heard Sam hiss in pleasure as he cut off his underwear.

"Oh yeah, Gene Genie, this…this is going to be good."

\--------------

"Come in, Inspector."

"Uh, Guv…you can call me Sam."

"Thank you. I…forgot that. Have a seat."

Sam awkwardly pulled up a chair to face off with this Not-Gene, who was sitting at Gene's desk, thoughtfully flipping through paperwork as if he cared. Sam stared until he looked up. "So how can I help you…Sam?"

Sam held up a finger in a gesture of 'wait a second,' and got up. He went over and pulled out the whiskey bottle from the filing cabinet and then sat back down. "I think, after all this excitement, I could use a drink. How 'bout it?" He put the bottle on the desk and Gene eyed it critically.

"We're on duty, Sam."

Sam got up and hauled him from behind the desk and yanked, and it was not as hard as he imagined to drag the larger man out of the office and through CID. In fact, Not-Gene was not fighting him much on it, and simply allowed Sam to drag him. Everyone stared mercilessly, still horror struck by this turn of events, and no one even made a move to stop him. He eventually tossed – as best as he would ever 'toss' – Gene into the Lost and Found. He locked the door.

"What the 'ELL is going on?" Sam hissed, and Gene smiled.

"That's more like it."

"What?"

"That raging monster…missed it. I knew it was you, you can't keep it bottled up forever." Gene reached out and pinched his cheek.

Sam slapped his hand down. "Who the 'ell are you, and what have you done with Gene?"

"Sam?"

"What!"

"I _am_ Gene." He looked confused and peered carefully at Sam. "Oh shit. You aren't Sam." Gene stepped back as if struck. "Bloody 'ell." And he finally looked just like Gene.

\--------------

Gene never wanted to cry before. He had cried as a young boy, and when his brother died, and once at a movie he chose not to even remember anymore, but he never _wanted_ to cry, and god, he wanted to now. He needed to, but he was choking, gasping, angry, and helpless, and as much as he wanted to cry he was held nearly insensible with fear and pain and yes, damnit, pride. He would be damned if he cried for this bastard, even if that was all he could think of that he wanted to do. Other than die.

For all the beatings and the burning and he was not sure he remembered what else, this was nearly damn romantic on Sam's part. He had massaged his ass and kissed his back and his bloody thighs – who kisses a man's thighs, anyway? Damn fairy – and then Gene felt something cold and slick against his anus and gasped, shuddering and trying to move away.

"Just my fingers and some lube, tra la la. Like a line in bad gay porn, right? 'Opening him up with my fingers, massaging his hot velvet channel' and all that. Oh…nice!" His fingers tapped Gene's prostrate and he bucked instinctively, cursing. "Nice. We need more of that."

Gene steeled himself like he never before in his life for anything and bit his lip and thought of dead puppies but nothing was stopping it as Sam stroked inside him, lovingly rubbing his prostrate until Gene saw stars from the conflicting messages to his brain.

"Fighting me off? How unromantic. Now I have to rape you…oh wait! That's what I planned all along!" Sam snapped his fingers out and Gene heaved a breath but his relief was short lived.

Now Sam was inside of him, fucking him, groaning in heated pleasure on his back and his fingernails digging into his skin. One hand settled under them and stroked Gene's cock in time with Sam's thrusts, and for such a light man, he had powerful legs, and his strokes were hard and on target. As he felt Sam's passion take over and he began slamming into him, Gene knew that he was going to cry, because he had to, because if he did not cry, then he was going to come.

\-------------

"I thought being stuck in a coma in 1974 was crazy, but YOU win!" Sam tried to keep from yelling.

"Coma?"

"What?"

"Coma. You're in a coma."

Sam knew this game and backed off. "No, I'm standing right here. See?"

"What year?"

"1974." Sam was beginning to get a clear idea of how frustrated the Guv got talking to him.

"No, Sam, what year are you in a coma? I know you remember."

Sam chewed his lip, thinking that this could only get worse, so why the hell not? "2006."

"Right."

"Right? Like, you know?" Sam shook his head.

"Right. I know. But you…no, you're dead."

"I am not dead, thank you very much." Sam glared at him.

"No, in 1974 you're dead. You were kidnapped and murdered, tortured to death. That's when you woke up in 2006."

"I'm not tortured to death." Sam held his arms out, presenting his non-tortured body for evidence.

"Never solved at the time. Destroyed Gene. Ruined him, personally, never recovered." Gene was staring off into the distance.

"Now I know your crazy, he would dance on my grave."

"Now I know your lying, because you know he cares about you." Gene crossed his arms and gave him a kindly, sad look, and it was eerie.

"Wait, you said you are Gene. But…oh god, does this make any sense?"

"Not right now. I don't understand. I actually thought I was going to walk in and meet 'Gene'."

"And you didn't think that would look…odd? Or something?" Sam tapped his foot and crossed his arms.

"Shut it." Gene glared at him and Sam snorted. "I'm used to this sort of thing. Would not have been a problem…or do you think maybe Gene can't 'andle himself?"

Sam just shook his head. He was at the point of accepting that he was in a coma, for real, and that now he was going insane, for real, in a coma. It just all made sense. He would wake up any second now, and be a crazy person in 2006. Any second now. Any moment. Any particular moment would be good…

"You have to trust me on this."

"You from Torchwood, right? That's what this is all about." Sam nodded vigorously, grinning.

"That's a TV show, Sam."

"Really? I thought it was just something on Dr. Who…"

"Spinoff."

"Oh? Hm…wait, wait, who ARE you? Can you just answer that question?"

"I'm Gene Hunt. That's bloody obvious, in'it?"

Sam hit him.

\-----------------

Gene felt filthy and broken and Sam was laughing at him. His legs were shackled now, along with his hands, and it was not as if he was planning to sprint for it anyway. Sam was lying next to him, cuddling him for christ's sake. Licking him. Gene shuddered.

"Com'on, Gene, relax. You should have let me get you off. It was a fabulous fuck."

"Piss off, you lunatic div."

"Love it when you talk dirty!" Sam giggled and snaked up closer to him, spooning him. "Those burns hurt, yeah? Let me put something on them."

The tone of his voice was dulcet and charming and terrible.

"Salt on the wound, yeah?" Gene grimaced.

"Brilliant idea, love."

\----------------

When the fight was over, Sam lost, and Gene was sitting on him. Sam was face down and Gene was straddling him, holding him down by his neck.

"Can we talk about this?"

"That's…mmph…my line." Sam growled into the carpet.

Gene got up and stepped back.

"You need to calm down. I know it's confusing, but damnit, stay focused!"

Sam stood up and shook himself. "Then try explaining it. Try explaining any of it!"

"Look, you really are supposed to dead, soon, but you're here and Gene's not, and that…is not how it is supposed to be." Gene put his hands on his hips and looked at the floor.

"Why?"

"It…means I'm in the wrong place." He looked up with genuine fear in his eyes. "I lost him. God only knows."

"Lost who? I'm trying to 'stay focused' here…" Sam tapped his leg impatiently.

"No, I know this is right. This has to be right. You're Sam. Your Gene disappeared a few days ago, yeah? Right when you were supposed to." Gene stepped up close to him, poking him in the chest, and it was so familiar that Sam nearly groaned in relief.

"So we are agreed that _you_ are not Gene?"

"I'm Gene. Just not this Gene."

"Oh. Right. Sorry if I got confused there, Guv!"

"2012."

"No, 2006."

Gene rolled his eyes. "Stupid git. I mean, I'm Gene in 2012. My Sam is from 2012. He's…well, he's you."

Sam stared at him. "I'm in a coma." It was something in between a question and a statement.

"Yeah, you were. And you woke up stark raving insane."

\--------------

Gene groaned. He was cold, and probably in shock, he reasoned. As far as he could reason, which was not far. The blindfold was back on and he was still on the floor. Sam moved around him, doing something or another, kicking him whenever he walked by. Not hard kicks, not bone breakers, just thumps with his shoe that would leave small bruises. Thumps to keep him awake, and alive, and ready.

Gene never thought he would see the day when he would just stop fighting, unless he was dead. Well, he was damn close enough to that, and he was damn tired, and Sam had fucked him in more ways than one. A good day to die.

\-------------

"I kill myself?" Sam repeated it, and it still made no sense, and for the first time ever he really missed that Test Card Girl. She made sense. Spooky scary sense, but nonetheless…

"Yeah. You come back and kill yourself, slowly. It's some kind of loop: you drive yourself insane with torture and pain in 1973 so that you wake up insane in 2006 so that you can go back and kill yourself later."

"But that…that means this isn't real! You aren't real! This isn't real!" Sam smiled, ecstatic, but stopped at the look in Gene's face.

"No, this is real. How do you think anyone figured it out? Records, evidence. Gene Hunt pulled one of the most lauded investigations in Manchester history trying to figure out who killed you – used all sorts of ground breaking techniques, stuff nobody ever thought of in 1974, pushed the forensics team to the wall. He changed the history of policing single-handedly with that case, he's a fucking hero. But he never figured it out. He couldn't, because he does not believe you are from the future and he could not understand that you would gladly kill yourself."

"I'm not suicidal…" Sam said, dazed, trying to absorb what Gene – this man – was saying.

"Debatable."

Sam's head hurt and he fell into the closest chair. "Time travel is impossible."

"Also debatable, son." Gene said affectionately, patting his shoulder. "When it all started coming together in 2008 you were packed off to a research facility. Not Torchwood." He smiled again. "No one knows how you do it, some kind of…fuck all, I'm no scientist, I don't know. Temporal shift. Transporter beam. Spiritual possession."

"How did you get here? And…you're Gene."

"Yep. I see you really are a detective, sweet heart."

"Oh shut it. Just tell me who you think you are."

Gene sighed heavily. "Gene Hunt. Swear on my mother's grave. You…no, not you. Who you become, that murderously insane prick….loves me. Keeps pulling me out from the past. Younger and younger he goes, grabs me, and pulls me back with him. Then he kills me. Over and over."

"You don't look young, and you don't look dead."

"No, I suppose not. He likes me….at this age. Roughly. So he grabs me and dumps me in any time that will put me at around forty in 2006. Last time, I understand, he grabbed me at about sixteen. This time….I was eight when he came for me, Sam. Eight. He dropped me off in 1974. I ended up in an orphanage, going crazy myself, and wasted half my life looking for family that did not exist anymore."

"Wait…you're here?"

"Obviously."

"No, no…I mean you, the child. You're here?"

Gene looked at him blankly for a second, and nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Sam thought for a second. "And then he kills you?"

"Yeah, as I understand it. But once he pulls me through, whatever it is he does, I can follow him. It's like dreaming, only worse. Much worse. So I follow him around, trying to keep him from killing anyone else, and anyway, he usually just wants to kill me so it works out."

"Kill you?"

"That's what I said. You're just a whiz at this."

Sam sat back in horror. "No, he's not killing you. He's killing Gene."

Gene bowed up in understanding, taken aback and horrified. "Bloody fucker, yeah, he is. That creative, brilliant bastard!"

His mind weaved a tapestry of memories, and what he saw was himself, eight years old, standing outside of St. Mary's orphanage and staring back at him. That was two – three? or four? – days ago. It sure as hell looked like him, that scruffy tow-head he used to be. It was weird and he did not think he would have noticed if the kid had not smiled at him. Innocent, all innocent the way was once, and smiling at him, and running across the street to tell him what a swell car he had. No one said 'swell' anymore, it was…old. Like him. Like that boy. Odd, out of place, out of time…like Sam.

Thoughts filtered down to Sam, and his smile, and his annoying tight-arse attitude, and how much he loved getting Sam drunk just to see him smile. He felt his brain drowning in chemicals, endorphins and what-the-hell the docs called it. A mad rush, a liquid sensation to his thoughts, an escape from the pain all around him. Something about Sam, and he remembered, once, sitting at Sam's flat, pissed out drunk, watching Sam laughing on his cot about something Gene was trying to say, and he was glad he was pissed out drunk because he would have humiliated himself. Kissing Sam. No, no that was not allowed. Not even acceptable to fantasize about. He shut himself down and let Sam go that night, because he had to, for both of them. Something like that would ruin Sam, who was girly ponce enough as it was without being raped by his superior officer.

Rape. Shit, the irony. His thoughts moved turgidly and the waters parted and he remembered where he was, and he saw Sam, and he felt the blow job but tried not to think about it, tried not to wonder how Sam knew every little trick that Gene loved and all the ways Gene wanted his cock sucked. He started groaning in protest as he came, the belt around his neck constricting him just enough to let him pass out again.

\-------------

"Sam, I'm not a cop. I don't know buttfuck about procedures or techniques or what-the-bloody-majigger."

Sam smiled. "I think that won't be a problem."

"What? Trying to pose as one of the greatest coppers in Manchester history? I bloody think it will."

"Trust me. Just yell a lot."

"Yell?"

"Shout."

"No, I 'ate shouting. Nuns did it all the time, gives me the heeby jeebies. Counterproductive, anyway. Much better to try to reason with people, I find."

Sam laughed. "God, that sounds so wrong coming from you. Just trust me, please? We need to find Gene. My Gene."

Gene looked at him, and stepped closer, one hand out. Sam held his breath, because this was…beautiful.

"Your Gene." He stopped and traced his fingers over Sam's jaw, and god help him, it was everything he ever wanted from Gene, but not this Gene. He held still as Gene leaned in, his fingers frozen delicately against Sam's neck, and kissed him. It was incredibly soft and he did not taste right – no whiskey, no cigarettes, no salt or vinegar or anything that Sam fully expected Gene to taste of. It was a mouthy warm flavor with a hint of mint, a bizarre counterpoint to the man who should have been standing there next to him. He reached up and pushed against Gene's chest, forcing him back.

"Not me."

"No. Not you. But…close." Gene looked incredibly sad, and burdened. "So close."

Sam wanted to understand this, but he knew they were on a tight timeframe, so he backed away. "Come on." He walked out.

They walked into Gene's office, past a crowd of utter confusion, because no one liked 'Gene' and no one understood what was going on. Sam forced himself to smile at Annie and Chris and shrug at Ray, as if this was normal after all. Inside, he closed the door.

"Our first step would be to go where 'my' body was found. You remember that?"

"I have the reports on you memorized. It's part of my job….You were found stretched out at a cemetery…on top of a grave."

Sam paled. "Whose?"

"Stuart Hunt."

\--------------

"You stink. I need to wash you off before we can go to bed."

"Fhu…fuck off. Jus' kill me you bastard." Gene gasped.

"No! What fun is that? Oh, well, it will be fun. Later. Right now, bath time!"

Sam picked up the edges of the blanket and pulled it like a sled until they were on the other side of the large, cavernous room. Then he rolled Gene off it, and Gene yelled in pain. The burns flared and hurt, and his ass hurt and well fuck what did not hurt right now?

Nothing, apparently, hurt as much as cold water.

"Rub a dub!" Sam ran a freezing, soapy rag over him after dumping a bucket of water on him. Gene's teeth started chattering. "You know, this is a first. Never thought about it this way before…" Sam said thoughtfully, scrubbing his arms and his legs and his dick like a hospital nurse…and Gene never liked hospital nurses, either. "Kill you, not him. I just never…well, no one's perfect, I suppose. God you know how long I wanted you back then? I died wanting you, you fuck, I died dreaming of you." Sam ran the rag over his chest, over the burns, and Gene gargled a scream as his body clutched in agony. "Every one I bring back isn't you…they grow up wrong, it is never right. Maybe it was the War. Or Stu. Or hell, me! Hmmm, you know I suppose I'll have to kill him anyway, just to wake up. Two for one! Now, I really should have taken you both together…oooooh, what an idea! Crap I'm so dumb, I should've thought of that. I suppose…no, there's always next time." He stood up and Gene assumed time passed because he came back with a full bucket and poured it over him, the ice cold water hitting his skin like glass shards. Gene's mind went black.

\---------------

Sam concocted a story about how the Cortina was stolen, and everyone looked more shocked about that then when they thought the Guv was kidnapped. It did the trick, though, of distracting them with something actually useful while he and Gene snuck out.

"Not surprised. You were actually killed somewhere else, probably a factory based on what little evidence they would pluck off your skin." Gene stood with his hands in the pockets of the trench coat, his face scrunched up in that familiar mannerism as he looked away from the grave. Sam knelt over it, looking to see if it had been in any way disturbed lately, but saw nothing. He stood up.

"What else?"

"Mmmm. You were naked. Raped, beaten, nearly strangled – probably something sexual to that, no way to tell for sure, but that is certainly his…preference. Two toenails ripped out, but that was not as interesting to him. He whipped you on the bottom of your feet with an electrical cord from a television."

"Makes sense."

"Test Card Girl, yeah." Gene nodded.

"How…how do you…"

"The reports. It's all in the reports." Gene grimaced, but something was there in his eyes, and Sam did not believe him.

"You know that Sam pretty well, don't you? It's not all from the 'reports,' is it?"

Gene shook his head. "No, it isn't. But he does not talk about killing you…himself. He knows better. He's still you, he's a brilliant bastard."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Factories. Empty factories. How many could there be, anyway?"

"This is Manchester in 1974, Gene. Don't you read history?"

"The only history I ever read is yours." Gene looked at him, and Sam felt pierced by the grief in those bright, green eyes. He turned and went back to his car, and got on the radio.

One thing that never changed about plods was they generally did not ask a lot of questions about orders. Sam got Phyllis to send couple of units to check defunct factories for 'nothing in particular but they'll know it when they see it' and bless her, she worked with Gene's ludicrous 'hunches' long enough to just do it as asked. But nothing came up, and the Cortina was still missing. Sam found a way to keep them out of CID for the rest of the afternoon by scoping out a series of factories and warehouse on their own. Later, the Railway Arms was, naturally, out of the question so they ended up eating curry at the Indian restaurant his Gene loved, and this Gene loved too, and going back to Sam's flat. Sam tried to get him to go home but Gene simply said that his home was currently an orphanage he had very bad memories of growing up in and he did not want to sleep in some stranger's bed, even if that stranger was him. Giving up, Sam called Chris to ask him to stop by and feed Missus, and set up drinks for both of them as Gene folded into the beat up chair that Sam considered 'Gene's Chair' anyway.

"I got a cat named Missus?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam sat down on his cot.

"Funny. At home I got a cat. Named Queenie."

Sam nearly spit out his drink and some of it got up his nose, burning like hell. He tried to nod politely but the effect was already ruined and he grinned self consciously. Gene smiled at him paternally, and sipped his drink as if they had just shared a private joke.

Sam though, really, that it was almost normal, except for Gene's haircut and his boots and the gentlemanly way he sipped the single malt as he sprawled in the chair. Sam knew he was staring, but could not stop.

"What yer starin' at?"

"You look...weird."

"It's me boots. Not proper shods for this era, yeah?"

"And you're not smoking."

"Gah. 'Ate ciggies. Stink." Gene wrinkled his nose.

"Tell me…about me." Sam played with his glass, and glanced up at Gene.

"Bloody mysterious soddin' freak of nature, you are."

"Well. That clears everything up."

Gene laughed, and Sam smiled, because it was the same laugh after all.

"Look, Sam…you went insane. You purposefully drove yourself insane. What am I 'posed to tell ya? Right now you are out there, probably torturing _me_ because you think it is a bloody hysterical good time."

Sam shook his head. He wanted to jump up and run out and start searching factories again. He looked at his phone.

"You got the coppers on the beat doin' it, they know their jobs, yeah? He won't kill 'im…me…until Friday anyway."

"How do you fit into all this? Aside from him kidnapping you?"

"He let's 'em know where to find me, how old I'll be. They drag me in and start on me. This time…well, it was late, yeah? So I did not know anything until I was, what, thirty-five? Then I met you. The insane you. I was a reporter. Damn good one, too, worked the Beirut bureau for three years."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Good times." He leaned back and smiled. "So they drag me in and introduce us and…the rest is history." He grinned and it took Sam a second to get the pun, and he groaned.

Gene looked at the ceiling, then back down. "I'm your keeper, Sam. I'm the one they use to keep you in line, to keep coming back. Otherwise you could drift into any time and just disappear. But you're mad, homicidal, and we can't let that happen."

"Christ…you're bait!"

"Summat like that, yeah."

"You…love him."

"Destined."

"But, well, are you…" Sam squirmed.

"Queer as 'ell, thank you very much."

"…my Gene?"

"Bet so. Never asked?"

"Never hit on me." Sam said, and was mad about it.

"Not like he could. It's 1973, Sam. I was born in 1931, for god's sake. Try to keep that in mind." He took another sip of the drink.

The phone rang. The Cortina was in a parking lot on the other side of town in a warehouse district. Four empty factories within decent walking distance. Sam told them to hold off until he got there, and it felt completely normal to run out the door with Gene on his heels.

\------------------

Sam was at it again, fucking him. The boy was a damn bunny. Gene was on his side, legs pulled apart like scissors, Sam over him and holding down his arms at the wrists that were still chained together. His other arm was behind Gene, holding himself up as he plowed into him and don't it beat all, if it was a fantasy it would have been a good one. But he hurt, and this hurt, and Sam calling out his name over and over annoyed the crap out of him.

He took a whipping to the bottom of his feet right before 'bed' and then Sam draped them in blankets and got naked and crawled in next to Gene and fell asleep. It was now late at night and Sam was awake again, hungry, fucking him hard, and really what Gene was thinking about was his torn up feet because his world had shrunk that much. He was not expecting to be saved, and he knew he was going to die at some point, so the only important thing he could concentrate on was how much his feet hurt. There was something comforting in that, as Sam tensed up and sped up and the sound of skin slapping against skin assaulted his ears.

"Oh shit." Sam stopped and looked up into a spotlight.

\-----------------

Nothing, but nothing – not Test Card Girl, not strange voices on the radio, not drug overdoses – was as strange as to look over the flashlight to see himself fucking Gene. Despite everything the other Gene told him, despite what he knew and how he felt, he was not ready to see that, and he froze. Gene ran past him and tackled Sam – wait, the other guy, not him – who was naked but still put up a hell of a fight. Sam forced himself to react and ran forward, joining in the battle, glad that he had clothes on so the other Gene could tell them apart, because he was blasting his Sam with power punches like a repressed boxer. They finally wrestled him to the ground and Sam handcuffed him – himself? – and they dragged him back to Gene, who looked unconscious in the darkness.

Sam dropped to his knees and he put a hand on Gene's shoulder, and Gene looked over at him.

"Fucker." Gene spat before dropping his head back down. Sam let go as if burned, and the other Gene walked up next to him with a flashlight. Running it over Gene's naked body, Sam suddenly understood the reaction.

"Oh god…oh god…we need an ambulance."

"Radio in the car. Keep an eye on them, I'll be right back."

It made more sense for Sam to go for the radio, but Gene seemed to know that he was not leaving the side of the man on the ground.

He looked over at himself, the naked Sam in handcuffs, bloodied from the fight, glaring directly at him.

"Enjoy it. I'll be back." He snarled, then he laughed, and he kept laughing, and Gene on the floor started trying to crawl away.

\----------------

Their doppelgangers were stashed at the back of the factory when the ambulance arrived. Somehow the other Gene's presence calmed the insane Sam down, and they sat quietly in the darkness, spooned together, Gene wrapping his arms tightly around the naked, handcuffed lunatic as if around a small child, keeping him quiet with whispers and kisses. Sam got his Gene loaded onto a gurney and rode with him to the hospital. Gene was out of it, and good thing, or else he would be screaming demands that they arrest Sam for attacking him. In fact, Sam was not sure how he was going to get around that exact scenario, once Gene clicked into some form of consciousness. The man was held hostage and tortured by 'Sam' for four days, and no way on earth would he be convinced otherwise. That Sam's alibi was everyone in CID was not going to change his mind, Sam knew that much about Gene.

He was given the worst sort of reprieve when the doctors pushed Gene into a light coma once he was out of surgery. His body, his organs, his brain were all shorted out and the doctors did not want him waking up any time soon. They told Sam they were going to bring him out of it the following day, and Sam sympathized, and wondered if his Gene was now walking around in some 1950s western playing sheriff or something. He really hoped so.

That morning he walked into CID and with absolutely no explanation of the "Gene" who showed up the day before, told everyone that the Guv was badly injured from his kidnapping and was tortured and they had no leads. Chris threw up, Annie kept repeating "But we saw him yesterday!" and Ray was furious that Sam did not call them to the scene the night before. Sam resolutely would not answer any questions about it. He told them they could not visit Gene at the hospital for another twenty four hours, at least, then left and drove to his flat before they rose up in rebellion and tore him apart.

Gene let him in and fixed him a drink and they stared at himself. He did not look so bad handcuffed naked to the cot, he thought smugly.

"Threeway? You know you want it." That Sam grinned up at them and rolled his hips.   
Sam looked over at Gene in horror.

"Am I always like this?"

"Yes, a terrific shag. Some things never change."

"No…no, I meant…"

"I know what you meant." Gene grinned at him.

"He does, he's good at reading our minds. Here, have a seat, Sammy, let's give our Gene a show…"

"Christ, I'm going to gag you, you bloody fag."

"Look, look, stop, both of you." Sam stepped backwards, very uncomfortable with a cravenly insane version of himself.

"No! You took away my toy! My Gene Genie!"

"That's it." Gene pulled a very nice, clean handkerchief out of his pocket and shoved it into the other Sam's mouth. "Now, you know you love it, you perv, so jus' think of it as foreplay."

"He looks furious." Sam said, looking down, wondering if he looked that _evil_ when angry. Evil Sam. It did not seem to fit, but he sure looked the part.

"Oh, he is. He's murderous, in fact, so don't uncuff him."

"Gene…we need to. I need my Gene to know it wasn't me. Else…"

"I know, I thought of that. I saw the way he looked at you. Look, call me here when he wakes up."

"I had Chris drop the Cortina off down the street." Sam handed him the keys.

"Really? I get to drive the Cortina?" Gene raised his eyebrows in boyish delight.

Evil Sam finally spit out the gag. "Oh brilliant fuck, he drives like a maniac…" He snarled and tried to bite as Gene shoved the fabric back into his mouth.

\-------------

Gene felt groggy and he felt pain but it did not register. Yes, he was definitely in pain, a shit load of agony, but his brain was cut off from it. He chewed his tongue just to feel something, and opened his eyes because it was too bright in here for a factory floor, and will wonders never cease the nurse had nice tits.

He tried to talk but it did not work and she smiled at him and left, and he was alone in a hospital room, wondering if Ray killed Sam yet, and who found him, and how long he had been out.

"You look like shit."

Gene flinched instinctively, against his will, but he was programmed now and it was Sam. Sam, smiling at him, the Sam he wanted to remember but who was dead to him now. Dead.

"Look, don' be scared, it wasn't me who did this." Sam stood by the bed, not touching him, looking at him critically like that bastard always does when he thinks he's right. Gene shook his head and forced him self to lay still. He was not going to let this son of a bitch, this _dead_ son of a bitch, know how much he got to him.

They stared at each other, and Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gene. God, what he did to you…"

Gene kept trying to glare at him, hatred flooding every cell in his body. It was a good thing that Ray had not killed Sam yet, because Gene was looking forward to pulling him apart himself. Slowly, yes, very slowly. Payback can be a bitch, and Gene was going to make sure this debt was paid in full.

Sam nodded at the doorway and Gene looked over.

Gene held a firm arm around Sam, who was wearing the same jeans and green turtleneck he was before, only this time he was in handcuffs and looking very angry about it. Gene twitched his eyes back and forth between Sam and himself, and he did not feel like he was looking into a mirror because he did not look much like himself. He actually looked pretty good, if a bit…like a ponce. He turned his head back to the first Sam, and thought that these drugs were better than anything he ever heard about LSD.

\-----------------

Two days later, Gene finally believed what he saw. Sam knew the moment it happened, when Gene looked back and forth between the two Sams and understood that he was not flipped out on drugs, that the Sam he knew had not held him hostage and tortured and raped him, and that there were two Genes in the room. He looked confused, but it was crystal clear confusion, lucid and honest. He still cringed as Sam stepped in closer to the bed, but Sam could tell he was trying not to, and when he saw that, he nearly fell apart, crying in relief, and trying not to cry in front of Gene because he really did not need to provide any more evidence that he was a poof other than what Gene already had on him.

The other Gene tried to explain everything, but even to Sam it sounded crazy. The only proof they had was the Sam in handcuffs, who at perfect intervals lashed out with very lurid comments about the joys of Gene's ass, and suggestively inquired about foursomes.

"Y'gon' to see he gets charged, eh?" Gene asked, glaring at the other Sam with his own evil eye.

"Charged?" The other Gene looked at him quizzically, grappling with the antsy lunatic almost without with thinking about it, as if it were second nature. "No, of course not. He's criminally insane, not a criminal."

"WHAT the bleedin' difference does that make?"

"Oh _please_ let me show you." Evil Sam lunged for the bed and was halfway on it before Gene yanked him off and threw him against the wall.

Sam almost smiled but then looked down at his Gene, who was, for Gene anyway, struck dumb with terror. It was just the way his body was tensed, the flashing look in his eyes, and only then did Sam understand what that Sam – what he, in fact, although it did not feel like him – had done.

"Gene…" Sam said softly, letting go of the bed and trying to adopt a non-threatening stance.

Gene glanced at him, and they locked eyes for a moment before Gene let out the breath he had been holding. "M'fine, Sammy," he whispered. Sam did not believe him, and knew there would be long nights with all the lights on for Gene, and maybe even times when he could not have Sam in the same room with him. Sam knew this because he understood it clinically, but it was a crushing knowledge, and the looked at the floor because he was not able to look anyone in the eye right now – least of all, himself.

"Thank fuck he woke up. Now we get to go 'ome." Gene sighed, breaking his reverie and leaning against the bed, one hand still gripping the other Sam, whose eyes kept snapping between all of them, hungry and terrifyingly devious. Gene never let go of him, Sam noticed, not even asleep. It was touching but eerie in a David Lynch-movie kind of way.

"How?" Sam asked, genuinely curious. The Gene in the bed just watched critically, still half drugged and exhausted, but refusing to fall asleep.

"I don't know. Just…it happens when the time is right. We wake up."

"Together forever…" Evil Sam trilled, and Gene smacked him on the back of the head.

"Yeah, and you love it. Be a good boy and I'll fuck you up the arse later, 'kay?"

"What happens to you, here?" Sam pointed at them, trying to change the subject and glancing nervously down at his Gene, whose eyes were narrowed in distaste, displeasure, and a thousand other 'disses.'

"We don't stay around to find out." Gene smiled, and reached across the bed. He ran his hand gently over Sam's jaw, lovingly, until his Sam bit him viciously on the other arm. They heard Gene snarling something about 'jealous bitch' as he threw his trench coat over him and hauled him out of the room.

Sam turned to stare at Gene, who was staring back at him.

"You _are_ crazy, then."

"Not yet, apparently. I'm saving that for someone special."

"Bloody 'ell…" Gene rolled his eyes. Then he looked at Sam, and squinted. "I saw meself."

"Yes, you just left."

"No, not 'im, that bloody fairy poof. I meant me. A boy…"

"You're at an orphanage right now, eight years old."

"I know. St. Mary's. That's where I saw…me. Christ if this ain't confusin'…" Gene tried to rub his head, but his arms were still weak, the muscles a long way from healed.

"That's 'im, the Gene who just left. He's the one who was dropped here; he grows up in the orphanage and becomes a reporter and…he takes care of me." Sam looked away, ashamed. He did not want to wake up, ever, if that is what happened to him. They were silent a while.

"So…I guess I never saw me attacker."

"That would certainly be convenient." Sam nodded gratefully.

"What you tell the others? Where's my team, anyway? You got them chained to their desks filin' reports in triplicate?"

"They think you are still in a coma. The hospital staff believes your attacker remains at large and won't give out any information on you, on my orders, even to other officers, and there is a plod outside the door to keep everyone out but me and you."

"A very confused plod."

"Er, yeah."

Gene frowned and looked hard at Sam. "You know what he did to me."

"Yes, I do. Even without the medical report, he's been very, er, graphic in the retelling. I think the thirteen stitches in your feet pretty much says it all, anyway."

"You were always the imaginative type."

"Gene…."

"So now you know."

"…what? Know what?"

Gene nodded at the door. "Him. That nancy poofer. 'E's me."

"Oh."

"And I know." Gene stared at him meaningfully.

"I swear, I will never lay a hand on you. Unless you hit first."

"Good enough for now." Gene sighed and laid his head back down, and was asleep before Sam could really formulate an answer. He paused, wondering what to do, although he was needed back at CID and he had to lift Gene's quarantine before the team ripped him apart, specifically Ray. He put on his jacket and looked at Gene, then leaned over on tiptoe and lightly kissed the side of his mouth. He tasted exactly the way Gene was supposed to taste.

\----------------

"'Oo are you?"

"I'm your dad. Now sit down."

"I'll sit when I feel like it, mister."

"Oh, he's yours alright."

"Sam, shut up. Now look here boy, sit your arse…"

"_Mr. Hunt!_"

"Oh, sorry, Sister. Now, boy, sit 'fore the nice penguin here gets her ruler out."

The boy sat down like a stone.

"Now…er…I'm your dad, got that?"

"You got proof? Because you don't look like my dad and I was born in 1931…"

"NO YOU BLOODY WASN'T!"

"_Mr. Hunt!_"

"Sorry, sorry. Er…"

"Eugene, let me explain. You've been through a lot, and I know it doesn't make sense. But this is your father, the man you were named after, and he did not know you were here but now he's found you and he wants to take you home. Would that be okay?" Sam kneeled next to the chair containing 'Eugene Franklin Hunt, Jr.' and talked quietly.

"I think I know you…"

"Mmmm, well, you might have seen me around…"

"You 'is friend?"

"Something like that."

"I don't belong 'ere, y'know." Eugene crossed his arms and glared at him.

"I know how you feel." Sam leaned forward and whispered. "I'm from 2006, and somehow I ended up here too."

The boy's eyes got wide, and he nodded uncertainly. "'Kay, then, I guess."

"Good, Eugene, good…" Sam smiled and stood up, relieved, as Eugene turned with a familiar, intense concentration on Gene.

"Can I have a pet?"

"I got a cat, that's all you get."

"What's his name?"

"_Her_ name is 'Missus' and yer gonna treat her like a queen."

Eugene thought about that. "I used to have a cat, named Princess."

Sam coughed into his jacket trying not to laugh, and Gene glowered.

"We can talk about that later! Look, you get a cat, so y'comin' home with me or not?"

The boy looked at the two men and then at the nun, who smiled encouragingly. Eugene nodded in agreement, as clearly Missus was the deciding factor, and Sam smiled. It was easy, for Gene anyway, to 'scare up' the paperwork proving that the boy was 'his' and from there the legalities of it were simple. Now Gene was a father, his own father, and he looked utterly terrified of the prospect.

"Com'on then. Gonna go ride in me 'swell' car." Gene turned and walked out, even now still limping.

Sam looked at the boy and held out his hand. Eugene stood up and took it, hesitantly, and looked up at him with the same creased-forehead frown that was, forever, Gene.

"Just don' call me Eugene. I hate that."

"No problem, Gene…'ey, tell me more about Princess…"

##########


End file.
